Game of Thrones Iron Stark

At Riverrun, Edmure and the Blackfish were reviewing the troops they had gathered. Soon the four thousand men from King's Landing would arrive and they would all march north together.

Blackfish Brynden Tully rode slowly along the line of bannermen. He suddenly reined in hard in front of a company flying the blue twin-tower banner of House Frey.

"Freys!"

The soldiers snapped to attention.

"Where's your commander?"

"My lord, our commander hasn't arrived yet. He asked us to beg your patience."

"Oh? And who exactly is he? One of Lord Walder's sons? Or grandsons?"

"His eighteenth grandson, Ser Godo. He's a true knight, my lord."

"Godo?" Blackfish frowned. The name meant nothing to him. "What battles has he fought in?"

"He was knighted during the siege of Pyke, my lord."

Blackfish thought for a moment, then glanced at the twin-tower banners again. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

"Let me guess. He was late to the fight and still got the glory anyway?"

"No, my lord. Ser Godo never showed up at all. From the first horn to the last. We waited the entire battle for him."

Blackfish let out a short laugh.

"Of course you did. 'The Late Lord Frey' has a new heir — 'The Lord Who Was Waited For.' Family tradition, I see."

---

On the slopes of Lonely Mountain, Ramsay Snow was hunting wolves with a pack of hounds and a dozen men. Snow fell thick and heavy, turning the forest into a silent white world. Ice hung from the branches like crystal daggers.

Three of Ramsay's men had already vanished without a sound. No screams. No barking from the hounds. It was as if ghosts had taken them.

"Gods damn it," one man muttered, voice shaking. "Is this men or spirits?"

"Shut your mouth," Ramsay snarled. "If there are ghosts here, they're wearing human skin. And when I catch them I'm going to peel that skin off nice and slow."

He grinned, the cruel light in his eyes bright even in the snow.

They pushed deeper into the trees until they found a tall man watering a skinny horse at a frozen stream. He wore a dark cloak, carried two swords on his back — one steel, one silver — and a wolf-head medallion around his neck. Long white hair spilled from under his hood.

The hounds surrounded him, growling. Ramsay's men closed in with crossbows raised.

"Take off the hood," Ramsay ordered.

The man did. His face was young but tired, marked by years on the road. His eyes, though, were sharp and far too young for the white hair.

"Who are you?" Ramsay asked.

"Geralt of Graystark."

Ramsay lowered his crossbow slightly. "Graystark? Prove it."

"I can't. And you can't prove I'm lying. We just happened to meet. Let me go. I have enemies waiting for me in the North."

"North? Past the Wall?" Ramsay smirked. "If you're really a Graystark, you should come meet my father at Winterfell. He's taking men to see the acting Lord Stark. Maybe you can claim your name properly."

Geralt studied the circle of armed men, then gave a short nod. "Fine. I'll go with you."

A low howl rolled through the trees. The hounds went wild, barking in terror.

"Wolves," Ramsay said, eyes lighting up. "Father sent me to clear them out. We're not leaving until every last one is dead."

Geralt's voice was calm but urgent. "Listen to me. These aren't ordinary wolves. They're werewolves. We need to leave. Now."

Ramsay laughed. "Werewolves? Old Nan's bedtime stories. Come on, boys — follow the howls!"

They hadn't gone twenty paces before glowing eyes appeared in the darkness all around them. The sun had set without anyone noticing. Moonlight spilled through the trees.

A massive scarred wolf stepped into the clearing. It stood on two legs like a man.

"Humans," it growled.

Ramsay's hands started shaking so hard he nearly dropped his crossbow.

A smaller white-furred wolf-man with a sword at his hip stepped forward.

The scarred wolf king looked at Geralt. "You're not like the others."

A wolf in a tattered robe — clearly some kind of witch — sniffed the air. "He's a Witcher. Steel sword for men, silver for monsters. The medallion proves it."

The wolf king nodded. "Then we'll let you go. But first you fight him."

He pointed at the white wolf-man.

"Little White Wolf. Show us what this Witcher can do."

Geralt drew his steel sword. The white wolf-man drew his own blade. They began to circle each other in the snow, blades gleaming under the cold moon.